


Huge F-ing Weather System

by juliaaamarieee



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Gay, M/M, Mentions of a Suicide Attempt, Misunderstandings, Recovery, SO GAY, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, Theo POV, Trauma, boreo, hand holding, lots of feels, takes place after the movie, theo pines for boris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26331781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliaaamarieee/pseuds/juliaaamarieee
Summary: Boris takes a step towards the door, and Theo’s chest tightens.  "Boris?" he blurts out in a broken way before he remembers how to stop himself.Boris stops instantly, turning towards him with wide, concerned eyes.  "Yes, Potter?"Theo opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.  He shakes his head.  Boris takes two steps towards him, then sits carefully on the edge of the bed next to him.  "What do you need?" He asks quietly, and Theo doesn’t see the way his hand hovers over Theo’s back, unsure if he should touch him."I don’t want -- I can’t -- could you… stay?"-Takes place after the scene in the Amsterdam café when things finally turn for the better.  Theo pines for Boris, and doesn't want to be alone in his hotel room.  Or to go home alone.
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48





	Huge F-ing Weather System

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first attempt writing for this fandom, so bear with me. I also haven't read the book yet (how embarrassing) so this is strictly movie stuff. This is sort of like a continuation, like after Theo leaves Amsterdam to come home to repair his relationships, but in this story, Boris comes home with him. And they get together. ...Enjoy!! Please let me know what you think so far!
> 
> TW: mentions of a suicide attempt.

**AMSTERDAM, 2019.**

_You talk about bad things you have done. And you blame yourself. You wish … wish you were dead._

_So, we have done bad things. But maybe sometimes, good can come from bad. If you hadn’t… if I hadn’t… maybe none of these paintings would be found. Maybe is … like huge fucking weather system rolling over, and we just get blown-- and maybe is fate or… ..why give name? Just… life, eh?_

_Your bird is safely back in the world._

_Happy Christmas, Potter._

They’re holding hands. Theo doesn’t remember the exact string of actions that led him to reach across the table and take Boris’s hand, but somehow he had, and he’s holding on for dear life as Boris strokes his thumb across the back of his hand. His touch is soft, electrifying, and it’s almost like the first time they’re truly making prolonged skin-on-skin contact since they were kids. Well, that’s not entirely true. His mind wanders to the parking garage, where Boris had grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down to nuzzle his forehead against Theo’s, holding him there for several seconds as his breath tingled Theo’s skin and their black and blonde strands tangled together. He remembers being surprised, somehow, how affectionate and intimate it was, even though he shouldn’t have been. It had been a long time, but it was still Boris. But then what happened next -- he pushes that thought out of his mind the moment it comes, because he can’t think about what happened in that dark, cold, bloody place. He _can’t_. 

He doesn’t know why it even matters to him that they’re holding hands. He doesn’t know why it’s making the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, or his heart race. He doesn’t remember how to breathe, but that’s also because he’s crying. Hard. 

Because he doesn’t know how, after nearly ten years apart and the worst string of days in his life, Boris knows how to say, even in broken, unsure phrases, exactly what Theo needs to hear. Tears track down both of their faces, Boris’s more like an expression of his happiness for Theo and the overall turn of events, while Theo’s face has completely crumpled, his glasses fogged and dotted with tears as he lets out every horrible feeling he’s experienced in the last week or so. And yes, there are happy tears mixed in with the rest, but he feels his cheeks flame at the idea of how he looks completely breaking down in a beautiful Amsterdam café on a sunny morning.

And then there’s the way Boris is looking at him, eyes so wide and loving and happy and glassed over, his handsome face with its dark, signature features pulling into a small, affectionate smile. And their hands touching, and the fact that Boris hasn’t pulled away. That too. 

Boris begins to tell him again to drink more coffee, looks into the empty espresso cup, then reaches across the table with his other hand--the one not stroking Theo’s--and pushes it towards him. “You want more coffee?”

Theo doesn’t, really; every nerve in his body is wired and his throat feels closed off from crying, but he nods. He doesn’t want to think about how the reason he said yes is because he doesn’t want to leave the café just yet, because that would mean that Boris would have to let go of his hand.

Boris waves a waitress over, and she politely doesn’t look at Theo as he rubs at his eyes and sniffs and attempts to look presentable. She and Boris exchange words in a foreign language, and the cup is whisked away. 

Theo’s attempt to stop crying turns futile as his eyes stubbornly sting and fill once more. He takes off his glasses and tosses them next to him to place his palm over his eyes. _Stop. Stop. You look ridiculous._ But all he can think about is the fact that the painting, the _fucking painting_ that has plagued him his entire life, is finally off of his hands, off of his conscience, and back into the world where it belongs. He thinks about what Hobie had said, how it was something that was meant to be immortal. He thought he had killed it, but he hadn’t. Was Boris right? Could good really come from bad? Like really, really bad? The scene from the parking garage threatens to play before his eyes, but he squeezes his eyes tighter. Then there was the hotel room with the pills and whiskey and the bed and vomit and death. _No._ He can’t think about what had almost happened. If Boris hadn’t--

When he opens his eyes again and his vision has cleared enough to make out Boris’s face, he notices concern in his dark, soft eyes. His hand squeezes Theo’s. “You are alright, Potter?”

He bobs his head, giving him a small smile as the waitress returns and places a fresh, steaming cup of espresso in front of him. A soft, muttered _“thanks”_ passes from his lips, barely audible, and Boris gives her an appreciative wave. Boris takes Theo’s discarded glasses and produces a cloth from his coat pocket to wipe them clean. He squints at the lenses in the light, then hands them back to Theo with a smile. Then, bless him, he returns his hand to Theo’s, linking their fingers together once more. 

Theo reaches with his free hand and takes a long sip from his coffee before giving Boris a real response. The coffee warms his mouth and throat and stomach, and it helps. Turning to Boris, he says, “I think… I will be.” And for the first time in years and years, he actually believes that he will.

\---

Boris’s idea of cheering Theo up had been a long day of sightseeing, walking the busy, buzzing streets of the city, flagging down cabs, and ducking into almost every bar they passed once the sun went down. The sightseeing had involved stopping in various museums, and though at first Theo’s heart pounded at the sight of the white walls and paintings and polished floors of the art museums, he found that he was actually happy to create new memories in those spaces with Boris, who cracked jokes and asked Theo if he was planning on grabbing any of the paintings off the wall and stashing it in his bag for the next eight years (before a hurried “am only kidding, Potter!”).

As the night wore on, Theo walked faster, laughed more, and found himself forgetting about everything. Nothing existed in his world except the sparkling lights on the water under the bridges and warmth of alcohol in his stomach, and Boris, with his stupidly gorgeous smiling face and eyes that shone brighter than all the lights in the city. 

Theo finds himself now, walking out of what they vowed to be their last bar hop of the night, walking too close to Boris and brushing against his shoulder, both of them giggling when they lose their balance for a moment. Boris leads him to a bench outside the establishment and they both sit, still laughing. Theo barely feels drunk, just _happy_. Free. Worlds away from all the shit that caused him to be here.

Beside him, Boris sticks a cigarette between his teeth and cups the end of it against the cool breeze as he lights it. He takes a drag, blows out for several seconds, then extends it to Theo. “Here. You need cigarette.”

Theo takes it gratefully without thinking, and he’s raised it halfway to his lips before he realizes that seconds before, this same cigarette had been in Boris’s mouth. He pauses. This is far from the first time they’ve shared a smoke; when they were kids, they often dipped their bare feet in his dad’s pool and passed one of Xandra’s cigarettes between them, sharing secrets and talking into the night. Now, though, everything is different. This is the closest he’s gotten to Boris’s lips since… well, since _that night_. That last night.

Heart hammering, he places the cigarette between his teeth. Nicotine instantly fills his senses, but something else too. _Boris._ He exhales, then takes another greedy hit, wanting more. The taste of Boris is still there, but fainter. He savors it, not thinking about why he is. He’s drunk isn’t he? Just getting shitfaced with a friend. His best friend.

He offers it back to Boris. “Here, I’m smoking it all.”

But Boris shakes his head, putting up his hand. “You can keep,” he says, reaching back into one of his inside coat pockets. “Am trying to quit.”

Theo chokes on the smoke in his lungs and coughs, looking at him with wide eyes. “ _You?!_ Are you shitting me?”

Boris laughs and pulls his pack out of his coat and shakes out one. “Yes, Potter. But if I was serious, I would still need to finish this pack, no? So I am not tempted knowing there are more waiting for me to smoke.”

Theo cracks up and playfully pushes against Boris’s shoulder, and ignores the way his heart stops when Boris sticks his new cigarette in his mouth and leans forward to brush it against Theo’s lit one, staying there until his catches a spark from Theo’s. The image of Boris’s face inches away from his own--eyes downcast and focused on Theo’s mouth with smoke filling the air between them--doesn’t leave Theo’s mind for a long, long time.

\---

The dark cloud over Theo doesn’t resurface until the taxi ride back to his hotel room. The entire trip, panic slowly settles in and begins to fill every crevice of him; his mouth, behind his eyes, his fingers. Boris offers to walk him to his room, and Theo savors every last moment with him: the walk to the elevator, their fingers brushing as they reach for the button at the same time, the trip down the hall to his room. Theo’s hand shakes as he reaches in his pocket for his room key, and his heart continues to race as he waits for Boris to deem him ready enough for him to leave.

The door swings open. The smell of whiskey floats out, and the room seems to spin as Theo trepidatiously eyes the bathroom where Boris had helped him vomit out his overdose, and the sink with the blood from the parking garage staining the porcelain. Sick rises in his throat, but before he can sway on his feet, Boris is beside him, reaching up to grip his shoulder and to steadily rub his back. “Shhh, Potter. Shhh. Forget that. Let’s get you in bed.”

He leans gratefully into him, letting Boris flick on the light as Theo kicks off his shoes. Boris slides Theo’s coat off his shoulders and drapes it over a chair, then walks across the room to close the whiskey bottle and open a bottle of water. “Drink,” he instructs, handing it to Theo. He obeys, welcoming the way it clears his head as Boris continues to move around the room to clear away papers and clothing and whatever else he seems to think would upset Theo. He can’t ever feeling more grateful for a person in his life. He doesn’t know how, whatever it is Boris decides to do next, it’s exactly what Theo needs. He sits on the edge of the bed, noting how it’s still made up from the way he had prepared it earlier, expecting it to be his last act before he laid carefully on top of the comforter and waited for sleep. His throat tightens again, and he guzzles the rest of the water in the bottle.

Boris stops fluttering around the room, and looks him over, unsure, with his hands in his pockets. The collar of his coat is popped up, framing his jaw and handsome features. He looks so different from the way Theo remembers him from their early teenage years, but yet so very much the same. He doesn’t know how he managed so much time away from him. He wonders what might have been if Boris had come with him that night. Would they still be here? Would they have grown apart? Grown together?

Again, the memory of Boris stumbling forward and kissing him on the mouth resurfaces in his mind. But how stupid, he tells himself for the millionth time, because there’s no way Boris would remember. They were both tripping on acid, and he knows now that Boris was thinking much more about the painting in that moment than him. Boris was probably still higher than a fucking kite. Why on earth else would he have _kissed_ him? No, Theo thinks, Boris wouldn’t remember. It was eight years ago. It’s high fucking time for Theo to forget it too.

Boris takes a step towards the door, and Theo’s chest tightens. “Boris?” he blurts out in a broken way before he remembers how to stop himself.

Boris stops instantly, turning towards him with wide, concerned eyes. “Yes, Potter?”

Theo opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head. Boris takes two steps towards him, then sits carefully on the edge of the bed next to him. “What do you need?” He asks quietly, and Theo doesn’t see the way his hand hovers over Theo’s back, unsure if he should touch him.

“I don’t want -- I can’t -- could you… stay?” Theo’s heart is in his throat, his legs trembling even though he’s sitting down, and then he feels Boris’s hand on his back.

“Of course, Potter!” He exclaims, breaking into one of his lopsided smiles. “Was dreading getting back in taxi with that horrible driver. Now I have excuse not to!”

Theo finds his face spreading into a grin, splitting the dried tracks on his cheeks from tears he doesn't remember shedding. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

Boris gives one of his quick, loud bursts of laughter. “Of course I know! Wait a minute, let me get changed. So fucking uncomfortable.”

It isn’t until Boris has grabbed his bag and ducked into the bathroom that Theo notices two things. One, that Boris had been carrying an overnight bag around all day and up to Theo’s hotel room, almost like he fucking _knew_.

And then, of course, as he stands and unbuttons his shirt, he notices the bed. And how there’s only one to share.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my god, bed-sharing trope. I have to own up to it. I just couldn't resist. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
